


Scraps

by resqueln



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Incomplete, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resqueln/pseuds/resqueln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mystrade WIPs that have been jossed by Season 3 and summarily abandoned.  Posting them for whatever entertainment they can offer.</p><p>Please note that these are incomplete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CSI Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between seasons 2 and 3. A grim series of murders forces Lestrade to seek out help.

This was the fifth body in as many nights. Like the others, the scene was a bloodbath. Greg’s team were weary and grim as they got to work cataloguing the evidence - the situation and five days and nights wearing on them all. Donovan appeared at his side and handed him a coffee.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the freak,” she said quietly.

_Oh God, me too_ , he thought but kept it to himself. Although none of his team looked their way, a hesitant hush had fallen in the room, his people listening for his answer. Right. Time for an impromptu pep talk then. Ignoring the host of emotions going on in his chest, he reached for his game face. 

“I know it looks grim, but we’ll catch whoever’s doing this,” he said more confidently than he felt and just loudly enough that it carried to waiting ears. 

Some of the tension flowed out of the room. People’s attentions moved back to what they were doing. Sally looked sceptical. 

She lifted her own coffee to mask her mouth and then said so quietly he could barely hear it, “you don’t believe that.”

He turned to her. She raised cynical eyes to his.

“I have to,” he said firmly.

She held his gaze for a moment and then nodded, turning away.

The problem was that he didn’t believe it, he thought five hours later as he sat in his office. Whoever was doing this was leaving no evidence. None at all. CSI were working themselves ragged trying to get anything, pull any information from the horrific remains of this bastard’s victims and coming up empty every time. All they could do was wait for the killer to slip up and in the meantime the victims would just keep rolling in. Lestrade slapped his palm on his desk in frustration and stood up. Donovan, Gregson and Laithwaite were still working, their conversation falling silent as he emerged from his office.

“Right, you lot, it’s 4 am. Get out of here and get some sleep. And for God’s sake, be careful out there.”

A chorus of “yes, Guvs,” and they dispersed from the white board towards their own desks. 

Greg waited until everyone had left before standing in front of the crisis board. The faces of the five victims stared back at him. Different ages, different genders, different races even. No obvious link. Christ, what a mess. If only Sherlock was here to shed some light on the situation. Sally was right, even if her comment had cut deep. She’d been amongst the first those decrying Sherlock after – well, after. Years of repressed frustration at Sherlock’s methods and personal dislike rising to the fore. She hadn’t been alone either. It had damn near split the team until Greg had pulled his head together and sounded them all out. Now, it seemed even Donovan had forgotten her animosity in the face of this current horror. They needed Sherlock and he was gone. Gone for good. Briefly he wondered how John was doing. He hadn’t seen John Watson in months. It was as if all the people Sherlock had brought into Greg’s life with him had vanished – John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes -

The thought of Mycroft made him hesitate. Sherlock had admitted once that Mycroft was the smarter brother. Maybe? He pinched the bridge of his nose, the idea making him cringe. When he looked back up it was into the face of victim number four – a young barrister, black, wife, two kids. Steeling himself, he pulled out his phone.

The number Sherlock’s brother had given him years ago was still in his contact list. _For emergencies_ , Mycroft had explained at the time. Sherlock’s emergencies, as it had been then. What had Sherlock said about Mycroft? That he never left his arm chair? Well tough. He had pulled Sherlock out of the fire more times than he could count, now the Holmes family could do *him* a favour.  
He pressed dial.

The phone rang and rang. No answer. Well that was that then, one more avenue closed –

Someone picked up.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, how pleasant to hear from you.”

“Uh, hi, is that Mr Holmes?”

“Obviously, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade felt himself colour. _Get it together, Greg._  
“Look, Mr Holmes, I’ll be frank. We have a situation here that really needs a Holmes touch.”

“As I am unable to raise the dead, I fail to see how I can help you,” Mycroft said sharply after a pause.

“There is still one remaining member of the Holmes family capable of assisting us,” Greg said.

Another pause and then, “As my parents are not inclined towards cerebral pastimes, I can only assume you mean me, Detective Inspector, and I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”

“People are dying,” he said and to his horror every note of frustration and despair sounded in his voice. Tiredness, he told himself.

“You have my sympathy, but I really cannot –“

He lost his temper. “Now listen here. How many times did I pull your brother out of the fire? How many times did I call you rather than put him up on formal charges? And now you can’t lift your finger to help us? We need you, Mr Holmes. God knows I wouldn’t ask if that weren’t true.”

“You cannot simply substitute me for Sherlock,“ Mycroft said, sounding somewhat at a loss.

“I’m not trying to, Mr Holmes. All I ask is a few hours of your time. You might pick up on something that my people have missed. That’s all. Please.”

Silence at the other end of the line. Greg held his breath.

“I will see what I can do.”

_Yes._

“Thank you.”

“I can only hope you will not be wasting your time,” Mycroft said and then hung up.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone. _You and me both._


	2. Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is arrested for treason.

It’s nearly 4am and Sherlock is half way through an experiment when John’s hurried footsteps sound on the stairs. He ignores it, focusing instead on the microscope. He sighs when the lounge door clicks open and John appears, face grave, and holding his phone out in front of him. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“It’s Mycroft,” John says. 

Uninteresting. 

“Not interested. Tell him to call again later.”

Sherlock returns to the microscope. The bacterial growth is showing obvious signs of -

“Sherlock,” John says with a note of warning. 

“Fine.” He huffs a sigh and takes the phone. “What is it?” he says into the speaker.

“I am about to be arrested for treason,” Mycroft says. 

Well this was at last unusual.

“So sort it out.”

“The situation is not currently within my control.”

An uncharacteristic hesitation. Some evidence of strain in Mycroft’s voice. Most unusually of all an admission of failure.

“If that is indeed the case, what can I possibly do about it?” he asks.

Another hesitation.

“You must find the truth, Sherlock. You will know where to look.”

“How pompously cryptic of you –“ he begins when Mycroft cuts him off.

“I do not have much time,” he snaps. A breath and then, “Sherlock, I – “

The sound of glass smashing interrupts whatever Mycroft is about to say and then the sound of people shouting fills the phone speaker. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft says clearly over the din. The line goes dead.

Sherlock pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it.

“Everything okay?” John asks, watching him curiously.

“Mycroft is being ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs, but – “We must go to Knightsbridge.”

“What did he say?” John asks as he catches Sherlock at the curb. 

“Apparently he’s being arrested for treason,” Sherlock tells him as a taxi pulls up. 

“Treason?” John asks bewilderedly as they climb in and Sherlock barks out the address. “But I thought Mycroft practically ran the government?”

The taxi driver is watching them in the rearview mirror. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and then quickly looks away.  
“Apparently not,” Sherlock says and then turns, hoping to dissuade John from asking more questions.

John stays silent.

The journey is quick, the streets almost abandoned at this hour and shrouded in mist. There’s a dull glow in the south that’s too early for sunrise. A fire then. As they approach Kensington Gardens the glow grows more intense.

“Oh my god,” John breathes beside him as they turn the corner.

People, fire engines and police cars fill the road. In the middle of it all, Mycroft’s ridiculously ostentatious townhouse stands burning – flames licking high into the sky from its¬¬ roof, from its windows, from its rapidly crumbling walls.

-*-*

The taxi slows to a halt and Sherlock is out of the door instantly, striding towards the tableau. John shoves some money at the driver and clambers out after him.  
Even from this distance he can feel the heat on his face. It’s so hot it’s like a furnace, getting more and more intense with every step. Sherlock is standing opposite the house, face like stone. This close the heat is making John’s hair frizzle. 

“Is that Mycroft’s house?” John asks, horrified.

“Yes,” Sherlock says in an ominous tone.

John glances at Sherlock’s face – expressionless. 

“He wasn’t in there?” he asks, part question, part reassurance.

“No,” Sherlock says in the same ominous tone.

“John?” Lestrade is standing at his elbow, looking puzzled. He nods towards the burning building. “What’s going on?”

“Funny you should ask, I’m not quite sure myself. What are you doing here?”

“Got a text.”

Wordlessly Lestrade hands him his phone.

_Come immediately. 52 Blenheim Place, Knightsbridge. Sherlock will need you. MH_

“When I got here someone had already torched the place,” his eyes flicker between John and Sherlock, still standing like a sentinel. 

“Is he okay?” 

The question seems to snap Sherlock out of his fugue state. He spins on his heel.

“I am fine. Did you drive here, Lestrade?” His gaze flickers over Greg. “Of course you did, your knee is injured. We’ll take your car,” he snaps and then turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving them both at a loss. 

“Shouldn’t we wait until they’ve put the fire out?” John calls after him.

“No,” says Sherlock over his shoulder as he strides away. “There’s nothing here.”

Behind them the burning beams of the house give out and the house crumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was going to be an overblown drama that would possibly have been a bit OTT, but I was so looking forward to writing. :D It involved secrets hidden in Sherlock's childhood home (the Holmes mansion - now completely AU), and political maneouvering in Whitehall, and car chases, and at least one helicopter chase. There was going to be established Mystrade and a good deal of Sherlock and Mycroft being fond of each other and yet complete bastards to each other at the same time. *waves hands*
> 
> Quite a lot of it was plotted out. After Season 3 so much of it was AU that I just didn't have the heart to continue. Probably for the best! In retrospect it sounds like a monster. ;)


End file.
